Very Old Bones Page 16

  I knew the danger of imposing too much trivia on my letters and so, one by one, I outlined the lives of my putative relatives to her, also wrote her short essays on the values assorted poets and writers imparted to the world, even if they never published a word. The task, of itself, I wrote her, was holy, the only task atheists could pursue that was buoyed by the divine afflatus. As for myself, the afflatus was flatulent.

  I realized with each new sip of Scotch that Dr. Tannen was wrong. I had, since Germany, accepted the doctor’s rules and entertained no temptation to suck on a whiskey bottle. But here again came that most wondrous potion into my life, already sending enriched phlogiston into my internal organs, upthrusting my spirit to an equivalency with Presidents, giants of capital, movie stars, and great writers, and providing me with all this not through fraudulence, bravado, delusion, or hallucination. None of that was on the table. This was real. I saw the future unrolling itself before me, knew phlogiston, fraudulence, badness, chocolates, yellow roses, and new neckties when I saw them, Mr. Plaza.

  I ordered another Scotch.

  A man of about forty years sat at the next table and placed his folded New York Times on an adjacent chair. I could read one headline: U.S.-South Korea Units Lash Foe; Jet Bombers Cut Routes Far North. The owner of the newspaper ordered a martini and I asked him, “Could I borrow your Times for a quick look?”

  The man shrugged and nodded and I looked through the paper: Senate will confirm Chip Bohlen as ambassador to Moscow despite McCarthy attack. Alfred Hitchcock melodrama, I Confess, is panned by reviewer. Twenty-three killed, thirty wounded in Korea, says Defense Department. Salome, with Rita Hayworth, Stewart Granger, and Charles Laughton, opens at the Rivoli Wednesday.

  It all served to incite informational depression in me, especially the opening of Salome. We all know what Salome does to John the Baptist, don’t we, moviegoers? I folded the newspaper and returned it to my neighbor.

  “The news is awful,” I said.

  “You mean out of Korea?” said the man, who had a look about him that Orson seemed to recognize.

  “Everywhere. Even Alfred Hitchcock isn’t safe.”

  “Who’s Alfred Hitchcock?”

  “He’s a Senator. A Roman Senator. He looks like Charles Laughton.”

  “Oh.”

  “He’s married to Rita Hayworth. You know her?”

  “The name has a ring.”

  “I agree,” I said. “Reeeeee-ta. A ring if there ever was one.”

  “I beat Korea,” the man said.

  I now realized that this man looked very like Archie Bell, the warrant officer I had served with at Frankfurt. It wasn’t Archie, of course, but there was something about the mouth; and the eyes were similar. But the face, the hair—nothing like Archie.

  “They sent me to Korea,” Archie said, “and they thought they were givin’ me tough duty. You know what I did? I beat the shit out of my knee with an entrenchin’ tool and got a medical discharge. They thought I caught shrapnel. Got the pension, all the musterin’-out stuff, and right away I invested it in Jeeps. Willys, you know the company?”

  “The name has a ring,” I said. “Will-yyyyyys.”

  “Today Kaiser-Frazer bought Willys for sixty-two mill. You know what that means?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “That’s major-league auto-making. My broker says I could double my money.”

  “Smart,” I said. “Very smart. I had a pretty good afternoon too. I started out with a hundred, and it’s ten times that now, maybe more.”

  “Hey, buddy, this is a good day for the race.”

  “The human race?”

  “Nooooooo. The race race. We’re beatin’ the niggers.”

  “I noticed. They don’t have any in here. But then again Lincoln used to drink here,” I said.

  “Izzat right?”

  “Every President since Thomas Jefferson drank here.”

  “Izzat right? I didn’t think the place was that old.”

  “Who’s your broker?”

  “Heh, heh. You think I’m gonna tell you?”

  “You know who my broker is?”

  “Enhhh.”

  “Thomas Jefferson.”

  “A two-dollar bill.”

  “My card, friend,” I said, handing him the business card of the Life editor. “Call me anytime. Let’s have lunch and plan some investments.”

  “Watch out for falling rocks,” the man said.

  “Here?”

  “Everywhere,” he said, and he smiled a smile that I recognized from the poker games in Frankfurt. This was the Captain, invested with Archie Bell’s smile. I left the Oak Bar without looking back, knowing my past was not far behind. I took the elevator to the suite, put on my new clothes, opened a bottle of Le Montrachet to let it breathe, then descended to the Palm Court to meet the most beautiful, most sensual, most photographic, most photogenic wife in the history of the world.

  “You look merveilleux,” Giselle said, stroking the waves of my hair, feeling the silk of my pocket handkerchief between her thumb and forefinger. I had been sitting alone in the Palm Court, sipping whiskey, listening to the violin and piano playing Gershwin’s “Summertime,” when the livin’ is easy, a perfect theme for this day. The song wafted over the potted palms, over the heads of the thinning, mid-afternoon crowd.

  “I never expected this,” Giselle said.

  “I decided to reward myself,” I said.

  “Reward? What happened?”

  “My editor loves my book. I asked him for an instant advance and got it.”

  “Oh, Orse, that’s beautiful.” She leaned over and kissed me, pulled away, then kissed me again.

  “And what about your day?” I asked.

  “They hired me. I go to work whenever I want. Tomorrow if I want. I told them I wanted to go to Korea and cover the war.”

  “I knew it would happen. Why wouldn’t they hire you?”

  “I thought they wanted more experience.”

  “They buy talent, not experience. Everybody buys talent.”

  “Isn’t it nice we’re both so talented?”

  “It’s absolutely indescribable,” I said.

  “I always knew you were going to be famous,” she said. “My wonder boy. I knew it. That’s one of the reasons I married you.”

  “Merveilleuse,” I said.

  “I was so surprised when you said to meet you here,” Giselle said. “I thought we’d meet in some terrible Irish café.”

  “There are no Irish cafés, my love.”

  “I’m so happy,” she said. “Order me something.”

  “Port. You love port in the afternoon.”

  “And Le Montrachet,” she said.

  “I know.”

  She looked at the wine list, found half a dozen port wines listed, their prices ranging from one dollar to eighteen dollars. She ordered the four-dollar item, and the waiter smiled.

  “You know,” said the waiter, “this is the wine Clark Gable ordered when he proposed to Carole Lombard. Right at that table over there.” He pointed to an empty table.

  “It’s fated,” said Giselle.

  “You two seem to be very much in love,” the waiter said. I looked up at him and saw a Valentino lookalike, a perfect waiter for the occasion.

  “What’s more,” the waiter added, “the first day this hotel opened, a Prussian count proposed to his American bride in this room. So you see, this is where happy marriages begin.”

  “What a waiter!” I said. “I’m putting you in my will. What’s your name?”

  “Rudolph Valentino,” the waiter said.

  “I thought so,” I said. “Bring us the port. Two.”

  Giselle kissed me again. “My wonder boy,” she said.

  The light in the Palm Court was pale beige, my favorite color on Giselle. I looked at the display of desserts the Palm Court offered: raspberries and strawberries, supremely ripe and out of season, bananas, grapes, peaches, plums, pineapples, and fruit I could
not call by name. This was the center of the fruitful universe. All things that happened within its confines were destined to change the world. Values would tumble. The rain of money and glory would fall on all significant consumers. There was no end to the sweetness of existence that was possible if you ordered a bowl of raspberries in the Palm Court.

  “This is what your life is going to be like from now on,” I said. “This is what success looks like. The absence of money will never again interfere with your happiness.”

  Giselle beamed at me the most extraordinary smile ever uttered by woman. I considered it for as long as it lasted, tucked it away in the archives of my soul, and raised my glass of port to hers. We clinked.

  “May our love live forever,” I said.

  “Forever,” said Giselle.

  “And if it doesn’t, the hell with it.”

  “The hell with it,” said Giselle.

  “There’s Ava Gardner over there,” I said, pointing to a woman in close conversation with a man whose back was to us.

  “Really?” asked Giselle.

  “Indubitably,” I said, but then I looked again and corrected myself. “No, it’s not her. I was mistaken. It’s Alfred Hitchcock.”

  Giselle’s laughter shattered chandeliers throughout the Palm Court.

  I stood next to the yellow roses, staring out of a window of our suite at Fifth Avenue below. The fading light of this most significant day (such frequent confrontations with significance were a delight) was troublesome to my eyes, but I could see a roofless motorcar stop at the carriage entrance to the hotel, saw Henry James step down from it, adjust his soft hat, then extend his hand to Edith Wharton, the pair bound for dinner in the hotel’s Fifth Avenue Café. Teddy Roosevelt struck a pose for photographers on the hotel steps, his first visit to the city since shooting his fifth elephant, and Mrs. John D. Rockefeller waded barefoot in the Plaza’s fountain to raise money for widows and orphans spawned by the oil cartel. As I stared across the avenue at the Sherry Netherland, I saw Ernest Hemingway in the window of an upper floor, his arm around Marlene Dietrich. The great writer and great actress waved to me. I waved back.

  At the sound of a door opening I turned to see Giselle, wrapped in the silk robe and negligee I’d bought her when she learned we were staying the night at the hotel. I poured the Montrachet and handed her the glass, then poured my own. Never had a married man been luckier than I at this moment. By virtue of the power vested in me I now pronounce you husband and traitor, traitor and wife. God must have loved betrayals, he made so many of them.

  “I think you are probably at this moment,” I said, “the most fucksome woman on this planet.”

  “What an exciting word,” Giselle said.

  I opened her robe and peeled it away from her shoulders. The perfection in the placement of a mole on her right breast all but moved me to tears. She stood before me in her nightgown, beige, the color of pleasure, and as I kissed her I eased her backward onto the sofa, and knelt beside her. I put my hands on the outside of her thighs and slid her nightgown upward. She raised her hips, an erotic elevation to ease my task, and revealed the bloom of a single yellow rose, rising in all its beauty from the depths of her secret garden.

  “Are there thorns on this rose?” I asked.

  “I eliminated them,” Giselle said.

  “You are the most resourceful woman on this planet.”

  “Am I?”

  “You are. Did Quinn ever tell you you were resourceful?”

  “Never. Say the word.”

  “Resourceful?”

  “The other word.”

  “Ah, you mean fucksome.”

  “Yes. I like that word. Don’t get any thorns in your mouth.”

  “I thought you said there were no thorns.”

  “I don’t think I missed any.”

  “Did Quinn ever have to worry about thorns?”

  “Never. Shhhhh.”

  Silence prevailed.

  “Aaaahhhh.”

  “Was that the first?”

  “Yes.”

  Silence prevailed again.

  “Aaaahhhh.”

  “Was that the second?”

  “Yes.”

  Silence prevailed yet again.

  “Aaaahhhh. Aaaahhhh.”

  “Third and fourth?”

  “Yes. Say the word.”

  “Fourth?”

  “No. Fucksome. Say fucksome.”

  “I’d rather you say it.”

  “Does your stripper say it for you?”

  “Never.”

  “Is your stripper fucksome?”

  “Somewhat.”

  “Do you tell her she’s somewhat fucksome?”

  “Never.”

  “Why are you still wearing your suit?”

  “It’s my new glen plaid. I thought you liked it.”

  “I do, but you never wear a suit when you make love.”

  “This is the new Orson. Natty to a fault.”

  “I want to go onto the bed.”

  “A sensational idea. Then we can do something else.”

  “Exactly. Are you going to keep your glen plaid on?”

  “Yes, it makes me feel fuckish.”

  “Another word.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Somewhat. I think I prefer fucksome.”

  “They have different meanings.”

  “Does your stripper make you feel fuckish?”

  “Somewhat.”

  “Have you told her?”

  “Never. What does Quinn say that you make him feel?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “I think I’ll take my suit off.”

  “I prefer it that way. It makes me feel fucksome.”

  “You mean fuckish.”

  “I prefer fucksome.”

  “Language isn’t a matter of preference.”

  “Mine is.”

  Silence prevailed again.

  “Is this better?”

  “Much better. And a better view.”

  “How would you describe the view?”

  “Classic in shape.”

  “Classic. Now that’s something.”

  “And larger than most.”

  “Larger than most. That’s really something, coming from you.”

  “It also looks extremely useful.”

  “You are a very fucksome woman, Giselle.”

  “Fucksome is as fucksome does,” Giselle said.

  Giselle and I walked along 57th Street and down Broadway, a change of scenery, a move into the murderous light of eschatological love and sudden death. I had convinced her after five hours of lovemaking that the walking was necessary to rejuvenate our bodies for the next encounter. Master the hiatus, I said, and you will regain the season. I did not tell her where I was taking her. I told her the story of Meriwether Macbeth, protagonist of the memoir I was putting together from a chaotic lifetime of journals, notes, stories, poetry, letters, my task being to create the quotient of one man’s verbal life.

  “He lived with a woman who called herself Jezebel Jones, a name she adopted after meeting Meriwether,” I said. “She was a slut of major calibration, but quite bright and extremely willful; and together she and Meriwether cut a minor public swath through Greenwich Village for the better part of a decade. She was known for bringing home strangers and creating yet another ménage for Meriwether, who had grown bored with Jezebel’s solitary charms. She turned up one night with a hunchback who called himself Lon because his hump was said to look very like the hump Lon Chaney wore in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and Jezebel found the deformed Lon enormously appealing. But it turned out Lon was a virgin, a neuter, who had never craved the sexual life, was content to move through his days without expending sperm on other citizens. Jezebel tried to change this by teaching the game to Lon and his lollipop. She enlisted Meriwether’s aid when Lon visited their apartment, and Meriwether, through deviousness, bound Lon’s hands with twine, then tied Lon’s legs to the bedposts as
Jezebel, having unsuited the hunchback, aroused him to spire-like loftiness, and mounted him. Released from bondage, Lon fled into the night, returned the next day with his Doberman, and sicked the dog on Jezebel and Meriwether. As the dog bit repeatedly into various parts of Jezebel, Meriwether took refuge behind the sofa, his face buried in his arms. Lon moved the sofa and, with the hammer he had brought with him, crushed Meriwether’s head with a dozen blows. Jezebel survived and provided enough detail of the attack to put Lon into the asylum for life, and Meriwether moved on to a posthumous realm that had eluded him all his life: fame.”

  “This is where I spend a bit of my social life when the world is too much with me,” I said, pulling out bar stools for Giselle and myself.

  We were in The Candy Box, a 52nd Street club that featured striptease dancers from 6:00 p.m. till 3:00 a.m. It was eight o’clock and the low-ceilinged room was already full of smoke that floated miasmically in the club’s bluish light. Four young women in low-cut street dresses sat at the bar, two of them head-to-head with portly cigar smokers. The other two, on the alert for comparable attention, turned their eyes to us, recognized me, gave me greetings.

  I called them by name and sat beside Giselle. On the dance floor, Consuela, a busty platinum blonde, awkwardly unhooked her skirt to the music of a four-piece band, while three other club girls cozied a table full of men, and another dozen solitary males watched the blonde with perfect attention.

  “This is so depressing,” Giselle said. “Do you come here to be depressed?”

  “I know the bartender,” I said.

  “You know more than the bartender.”

  “He’s a friend. He lost his leg at Iwo Jima. A colleague in war, so to speak.”

  “And your stripper, she works here?”

  “Five nights a week.”

  “Are we in luck? Will we get to see her?”

  “It turns out we will.”

  “Is that her trying to make herself naked up there?”

  “No, that’s Consuela, one of the new ones, still a bit of an amateur. My Brenda is a talented stripper.”